The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(14)

My eyes shoot open. I’d conveniently forgotten about that, for the most part. “Were we legally married?” I ask. “I sort of assumed it was just…a joke. I don’t see how we could even have gotten all the way from LA to Vegas in time.”

His tongue prods his cheek as he holds back what he wants to say. “Well, the signed marriage certificate I found the next day would indicate that we somehow managed.”

It’s sort of a relief that he doesn’t remember either. As appalling as much of what I’ve done over the past few years is, to have this monumental night be almost entirely a blank slate rankles. My father and stepmother constantly assume the worst and, in this, I’m forced to agree. “So I guess you were drunk too.”

A hint of a flush graces his cheeks. “You can’t possibly imagine I’d have chosen to do something like that sober?”

No, I guess not. While a fuck-up of this magnitude is just a day in the life for Keeley Connolly—I’m honestly shocked I hadn’t gotten drunk-married in Vegas already—for Graham Tate, it was an appalling, life-shattering error. Temporary insanity he’ll now be stained by for the rest of his days. It’s hard not to feel a bit guilty for dragging him into my crazy.

“Look,” I say, exhausted. “I have to work in the morning. Can we discuss this later?”

“My mom’s armed their security system by now. I’ll need to sleep here.”

“Here? No. Get a hotel. Or go stay with Gemma and Ben.”

“Keeley, for fuck’s sake…Gemma and Ben are asleep, and I don’t feel like finding a hotel at one in the morning. You must have a guest room.”

“Sorry, Lord McRichPants. There is no guest room available. You can take the couch.”

He pushes a hand through his hair. “That’s a loveseat, and I’m six-four. We’ve shared a bed before, apparently. It won’t kill us to do it again.”

“My room isn’t…fit for company.”

He glances around him. “Believe me, my expectations were already low.”

Ugh. I guess I deserved that. “Fine, whatever, but no judgement.”

I walk to my bedroom, which looks even worse than I remember, and I remembered it looking pretty terrible. The bed is unmade, and atop it rests several days’ worth of clothes, plus a wet towel, a half-eaten bag of popcorn, a makeup mirror I haven’t hung up, and my beloved Birkin bag.

He arches one perfect brow, that tiny flare of his nostrils accompanying it. “You’re sure you’re actually a doctor?” he asks, looking around. “Because you live like a teenage girl who just profited from a sex tape with Kanye.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“I assure you it wasn’t one. I mean, are you letting circus folk use your bedroom as a staging area? I don’t even understand how one tiny person could make a mess of this size.”

How the hell did I sleep with this man? How the hell did I convince myself to marry him? God knows he couldn’t have been the one who did the convincing…He can barely stand to look at me.

I carefully pick up the Birkin before sweeping everything else onto the floor. “Climb in, remain dressed, and go to sleep.”

“Where’s your bathroom?”

There is absolutely no way he’s seeing my bathroom if he’s this judgmental already. “Guest bath,” I say, pointing toward the door. “Off the closet.”

“Your closet has its own bathroom?”

I ignore the question, entering my bathroom and slamming the door behind me. And then my jaw locks and I swallow against the tightness in my throat, because coming face to face with myself, and only seeing my mother reflected back at me, is not ideal at the moment. She wanted so much for me and so much for herself.

I brace my hands on the vanity and try not to cry. “Keeley, you’ve really fucked up. You’ve fucked up so badly.”

Because look at this place. There’s half a donut on the sink. Last night’s pajamas are still on the bathroom floor, where I shed them this morning. I haven’t taken out the trash in two weeks and it’s beyond overflowing.

I can’t parent. I can’t even take care of myself, and it’s only now, when I finally have a witness to it all, that I see it clearly. No wonder he’s horrified. I wouldn’t want me raising my kid either. But I absolutely can’t fall apart right now, not with Graham Tate stomping around my apartment, looking for signs of weakness.

I wash my face and pull on last night’s pajamas, then emerge from the bathroom to find Graham sitting up in my bed, leaning against the headboard with a t-shirt on, arms folded. He looks like someone’s cranky dad.

A really hot cranky dad, I’ll admit.

Which is what he already is. The man I’m looking at right now with those drool-inducing arms is the father of my child. My husband.

I shake my head as I stand in the doorway, patting on my eye cream. “I feel like I’ve landed in some kind of bizarro alternate universe.”

“Me too,” he replies. “But that’s mostly about the state of your apartment.”

I ignore him, shutting off the bathroom light and crossing the room to my side of the bed.

“I can’t believe you’ve turned an entire bedroom into clothing storage,” he grouses. “Why do you even own that many clothes?”